Tears and Raindrops
by MintSauce
Summary: Random One-shot. Mickey doesn't expect to run into Ian in the street and he certainly doesn't expect to hear the news Ian has to deliver.


"What the actual fuck?"

Mickey whipped around, his eyes narrowing and fists clenching when someone walked into him. He was about ready to throw the punch when he saw the familiar face streaked with tears, the face he hadn't seen in so long.

He was still more or less the same, just a bit taller and a lot more muscular and he looked as tired as hell underneath the blotchy redness of his cheeks and the tears in his eyes. He looked distraught, he looked manic with the pain in his eyes. Mickey would have yelled at him to stop fucking crying, but he knew Gallagher didn't cry over nothing.

"Firecrotch?" he grabbed the sides of Ian's head, pulling him back around because Ian had started to wander off, "Ian. . . what's wrong?"

Ian stared at him for a long minute and then his expression twisted into one of anger and disgust and he looked like he actually wanted to hit Mickey for something. That made Mickey scowl, because he didn't like people blaming him for things he had no clue about.

"Could you be any more of a shitty brother?" Ian snarled at him, "She was your fucking sister, she actually gave a shit about you."

Ian's hands slammed into Mickey's chest, freeing himself from Mickey's grasp, but his hands were already falling. He didn't have the strength anymore, he felt like it had all rushed out of him. He just stared at Ian, took in the tears and the pain in his eyes and something clicked inside of him at the same time everything just seemed to go dead.

"What the fuck happened to Mandy?" he grabbed the front of Ian's shirt and slammed him into a nearby wall and he knew he probably looked insane, dangerous and frantic, because that was how he felt.

That and he felt like he was dying inside, but that wasn't something he wanted to share. He didn't know how to formulate the words that would do justice to the pain in his chest, Mickey didn't have the vocabulary for that.

"You don't know?" Ian's voice was softer, apologetic, sad, so many emotions crammed into so few words that it suddenly became too much. Mickey let go of him, pulling back because he didn't know how to be so close to so many emotions. Mickey didn't do emotions, he didn't know how to feel them, how to be near them. He couldn't cope.

"Gallagher, what the _fuck_ happened to my sister," he ground out through his teeth, staring into all those emotions and feeling like he was drowning, but he couldn't look away. Because he thought he already knew, the pain in his chest, the pain in Ian's eyes told him that he already knew. But he didn't want to think it, he didn't want to be wrong, even more so, he didn't want to be right.

Ian stepped closer to him, like he thought Mickey would want that proximity. Or maybe he just didn't care that he wouldn't. "Mick," he said and there was so much in that one word, it sounded like an apology. Mickey fucking hated apologies. "Mandy got hit by a car," he said slowly, his face contorting like the words physically hurt him. Maybe they did. They were sure hurting Mickey. "She died in the ambulance on the way to hospital."

Mickey was pretty sure this was what it would feel like to have the earth drop out from underneath your feet.

He didn't cry, but he thought that he might as well have done. He couldn't stop the shaking that took over his body and he didn't jerk away from the hands that pulled him closer, the fingers in his hair that pushed his face into the crook of Ian's neck. He made this sort of strangled sound and could feel Ian's tears falling and running down his own cheek, but that just made him grab on to the front of Ian's shirt until he was white-knuckled and until it hurt.

Even then, he didn't stop. He just clung on.

They only shifted when it started to rain, when the heavens opened up above them. "Let's go get drunk," Ian suggested, his voice broken and choked, "She'd approve of that."

Mickey just nodded because he didn't know how to see past the pain in his chest. He knew Ian was right though, he knew Mandy would only take the piss for him crying – or whatever he was doing – and would see much more sense in them going out to get shitfaced.

They emptied their pockets and wallets in the nearby store, buying as much alcohol as they could and then almost running back to Ian's apartment, the redhead leading the way. Mickey wasn't one for hesitation and almost as soon as he walked through the door, he took out a can of cheap beer and stabbed a hole in it, shot gunning half before handing it over to Ian quickly. Mickey only half noticed the beer dribbling down the redhead's chin, running down his neck, because he was too busy opening a bottle of vodka and guzzling down the burning liquid.

At some point Ian put music on, loud and harsh, kind of shitty, but Mickey didn't complain or say anything because he knew it was only to try and drown out the thoughts in their head. But Mickey couldn't stop them, he couldn't stop remembering. Random things he'd forgotten about Mandy, random scenes from their childhood, they all flickered behind his eyelids and they all made him want to tear his eyeballs out of his head.

Mandy had been the only sibling he'd liked, she'd been the only one he had ever openly admitted to caring for. And how could he not have?

"The fucker who did it's a dead man," he ground out, raising the bottle in his hand to the ceiling in a silent, somewhat pointless toast.

Ian watched him through red-rimmed eyes. "It was an accident, Mick," he said, sort of levelly, even though the pain was still clogging up his throat, just like it was Mickey's. He was getting two glasses out of a cupboard, but they both knew the chances were they weren't going to be used. Mickey thought Ian just needed something to be doing with his hands.

"I'll still kill the fucker," he muttered and Ian gave him a weak sort of smile.

He didn't know at what point in the night he noticed that Ian's apartment was actually pretty fucking nice, maybe it was when he finally stopped drinking frantically and slowed down. He still always made sure to have a drink in his hand, but he wasn't chugging bottles of vodka after about half an hour. He didn't think there would be anything left of his throat if he did.

"This was the army getcha then?" he asked, his words slurring a little, but not a lot. Mickey was a Milkovich, he was built to withstand a hell of a lot of alcohol. Sometimes he felt like it ran through his veins, like he was never completely sober. It would explain some of the fucked up stuff he'd done. It would explain a lot of it actually.

He waved his hands around him to indicate what he meant.

Ian shrugged, "I guess, I'm not here much though."

Mickey wanted to say, "No shit fuckwad, that's what you get when you join the army, no fucking time to yourself." But somehow the words could clogged up and changed somewhere on the way from his brain to his tongue and instead he asked, "How is it?"

"How's what?"

"The fucking army douchebag."

Ian was leaning against one of the kitchen counters and Mickey was on the table, his feet on one of the chairs. He'd already stripped off the rain-soaked shirt and it lay bunched up with Ian's on the floor. Both of them were their shirtless in uncomfortably damp jeans and Mickey could feel Ian checking him out just as much as he was eying up Gallagher in return.

He'd bulked up, that much was definitely clear. There were muscles along his arms that Mickey sort of ached to feel and his abs were much more defined now, making Mickey's fingers twitch with the desire to dip his tongue into the grooves. He blamed the alcohol, it made him horny, but it also opened his eyes to the fact that more than one person lived in this apartment quite obviously and it was only one-bedroomed.

Ian shrugged, "It's alright."

Mickey snorted, he couldn't help himself. "You fucking hate it," he said, knowing he was right. He could see it in Ian's eyes. "Fucking knew you would."

"Thanks for sharing then," Ian muttered, seeming surprised that Mickey had been able to work that out. It made Mickey wonder how many people had guessed, how many people saw Ian's real thoughts. Or did they all buy the bullshit he fed them about it being everything he had ever wanted from his life.

"You wouldn't have fucking listened to me anyway," Mickey replied, the vodka making him honest.

Ian's lips twitched up into that half smile again, "True."

There was a minute of silence in which Mickey finished his beer and crushed the can underneath his foot. He opened another one without hesitation. "Wish I had done," Ian said so softly Mickey wasn't even sure he'd heard it. "Mandy asked me not to go, you know?" Ian continued and Mickey scowled, and said, "No, why the fuck would I know that."

Because it was true, why the hell would he know that?

"You were in Juvie at the time," Ian muttered, taking a swig of vodka and pulling a face as it burned a path down his fault.

"I wonder who's fault that was."

Ian scowled, "Nobody asked you to punch that cop, Mick."

"No, but you had to fucking go all puppy dog eyes and making me feeling guilty for wanting to kill Frank," he retorted, not knowing why he was saying the words, maybe it was because for some reason it helped ease the twist of pain in his chest. He didn't know how that worked, he didn't want to think about it. "So what the fuck else was I supposed to do, I wasn't sticking around to let my Dad slit my throat in my fucking sleep?"

Ian just stared at him for long enough that Mickey started to think that maybe he wasn't going to answer that. Mickey didn't know what anybody could answer to that, so he didn't really blame him.

"Frank didn't tell anyone, Mickey," he said slowly, "He still hasn't, you didn't have to run."

Of course he did, didn't Gallagher understand that? Because Mickey hadn't just been running from his Dad, he'd been trying to run from his feelings, before he did something fucking stupid like wind up getting his heart broken when Ian ran off to the fucking army.

"What the fuck are you complaining for, it all worked out fine, didn't it?" he snapped, "You got your nice apartment, your faggy boyfriend who lives with you and your dream job, why the hell did it matter whether or not some punk kid from your teenage years wound up in Juvie again?"

It had mattered to Mickey, but he didn't know how to say that. He didn't want to say that.

Ian didn't ask how Mickey knew about the faggy boyfriend. Maybe he worked out that it was kind of fucking obvious when they were sitting in the apartment that they obviously shared. It made Mickey wonder if the guy was suddenly going to appear, it made him wonder what he was like, if he was good enough for Ian. And then he thought, _of course he fucking isn't, nobody is. _

Mickey certainly wasn't and maybe that was the point of it all. Mickey had never been good enough for someone like Ian. Mickey was only good enough for a life in jail, it was as simple as that.

Ian snorted, "Yeah, I have an apartment I hardly ever live in, a job that makes me feel like I'm about to snap any minute for no fucking reason and a boyfriend who thinks I don't know that he fucks around when I'm deployed."

The anger was there, burning in his eyes and it hung in the air, stinging Mickey's lungs when he breathed in. Or maybe that was the booze in his system, or the thoughts in his head. He couldn't quite work it out. He still didn't want to. But he did think that maybe panicking inside over Ian and what the fuck he was making Mickey feel was better than breaking down over thoughts of Mandy.

_"You and Ian then huh?" she smirked at him, which made him scowl, "Didn't see that one coming."_

_ Mickey cracked his knuckles because he didn't know what else to do. He wanted to run, but for some reason he stayed rooted to the floor. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked, his voice sharp enough to make someone bleed. _

_ Maybe that was the reason Mickey felt like he was bleeding out inside. _

_ "Mickey, I'm not an idiot, I'm not going to tell anyone," she said, staring him down in that completely fearless way his sister seemed to share with Ian. Nobody else did that, everyone else was scared of pissing Mickey off. They didn't like looking him in the eyes. "And Ian didn't tell me, I worked it out for myself since you were saying his name in your fucking sleep."_

_ She gave him a look that was probably supposed to be meaningful._

_ He didn't know what else to say. _

_ "You fucked it up, didn't you?" she asked when he didn't say anything, but they both knew she already knew the answer. _

_ "Big time," he admitted, "True Milkovich fucking style."_

_ Mandy snorted. "Well we already knew you were an idiot," she scoffed, "But just so you know, I think it's kind of sweet, the idea of you and Ian, he'd be worth it all in the end, you do know that right?"_

_ Of course he did, he was just too scared to admit that. _

_ "Fuck off Mandy," he snapped, walking away. _

He wished back then he'd actually had the courage to be able to admit to her that she was right. That the person standing in front of him now was worth everything Mickey would give and so much more. He wished he'd asked her how he could give it, how he could change who he was enough to be able to get what he wanted.

"You want me to kill the bastard?" Mickey asked, staring at the tears that filled Ian's eyes again.

He cracked a smile and then laughed, "I'll get back to you on that one."

Because they both knew that Mickey would kill for him, he wouldn't even hesitate. For some reason Mickey thought that maybe that made him better than Ian's boyfriend, because they had never even been officially together and he'd never even thought of cheating on Ian once. Not that he would have ever told the redhead that.

Somehow they ended up sitting on the kitchen counter, their backs against the wall, throwing a strange combination of Maltesers and popcorn into a cup on the table. They were already drunk, probably a little more than drunk actually and they both missed more times than they hit. Mickey couldn't even remember when they'd started the stupid fucking game, all he really knew was that he kind of liked the feel of Ian pressed up close beside him, shoulder to thigh, the friction making Mickey's eyes cross as one of them took a shot.

"Fuck," Ian muttered when the cup toppled over and the food rolled in all directions, but neither of them got up to clean any of it up and neither could be bothered to reset the cup either.

Mickey stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth and shivered when Ian's finger traced a scar on his bicep. "How did that happen?" he asked, his voice low and fucking torturous, making Mickey's head spin.

"Knife fight I think," he muttered, letting his head fell back against the wall with a thump, "Don't really remember, I was drunk."

Ian snorted, like that made perfect sense. "And that one?" he asked, pressing a finger to the other scar across his collar bone, the one that stood out bright against his pale skin, "That the same fight?"

"No, different," Mickey replied, not opening his eyes even though he knew Ian was looking at him strangely, "I sorta went off the fucking rails when I got out of Juvie that second time, almost went back in."

"Why?" Ian asked and Mickey looked at him sideways, because they both knew that was a stupid question. Neither of them said anything for a while, just sat swigging from their cans, alternating between the beer and the last bottle of vodka.

They were saved from either of them having to sum up why Mickey had gone off the rails by the front door opening and two people crashing through. Hands were grabbing, trying to pull at clothes and they were kissing almost frantically. Mickey could feel his lips curl up into a sneer and he hated the way Ian tensed beside him.

There were these horrible, frozen few minutes where they both just sat there on the counter and watched the two guys, both blonde making out in the entrance way and then Mickey got bored of it and he turned to Ian and asked, "Which one?" in a whisper that was harsh, but quiet enough that the two guys couldn't hear him over their moans.

"Black shirt," Ian mouth back at him and Mickey sneered even more because the fucker pretty much defined being gay. He was all girly looking a shit, fragile and he was the perfect bottom stereotype. Mickey hated him already.

He slid off the counter, his landing surprisingly soundless as he hit the floor. Surprising because with the amount Mickey had drunk, he shouldn't even be capable of standing upright. The other two didn't hear him as he approached, didn't realise he was there until he was right behind them and the one he didn't care for made a sort of choked sound of surprise, pulling back.

Ian's boyfriend – he didn't even know his name – turned around just in time for Mickey's fist to connect with his face. Blood spurted across Mickey's knuckles and he would have hit him again if the fucker hadn't crumpled to the floor like a little bitch.

Gallagher hadn't moved off the counter and was staring at Mickey with that stupid half smile on his face. "What the fuck is wrong with your taste in men?" Mickey sneered at him, moving back over and standing in between Ian's knees, taking a swig from the bottle of vodka that stood beside them on the counter.

The redhead's mouth twisted now into a smirk, "I don't think it's so bad."

Mickey grabbed up the last can of beer. "Nah, Gallagher, your taste is fucked up," he said before punching a hole in the bottom of the can and shot gunning it. He pressed closer to Ian so that it was easier to transfer the can, his hands lingering for longer than was necessary as he relished in the feel of Ian's fingers sliding against his own.

When the can was tossed aside, Mickey darted in and pressed his tongue to the base of Ian's throat, following the line of beer that had dribbled downwards. Ian moaned low in the back of his throat and his arms lifted so that his fingers could claw at Mickey's shoulders, pulling him in. And that made Mickey chuckled before he could stop himself, holding on to Ian's thighs and squeezing hard enough to elicit another moan from the redhead.

Mickey didn't even care that he could hear Ian's boyfriend crying like a bitch behind him, Mickey didn't hesitate to unbutton Ian's jeans and push his hands inside his boxers. Ian made this sort of choked sound when the hand closed around his dick and he fell forwards until his head rested against Mickey's bare shoulder.

The moans in his ears, the way Ian was clinging to him was making Mickey harder than he thought was probably healthy inside of his jeans. Gallagher came after a few minutes and Mickey knew it was fucking gay, but he came as well when Ian's teeth buried in his shoulder. It hadn't been long or spectacular, but Mickey could feel small shivers running through his body right the way down to his toes.

Mickey smirked because he didn't know how to smile.

"Mandy would have fucking loved to make you do that," he muttered, his voice raspy and low, nipping at Ian's earlobe.

Ian pulled back and stared at him, "Your sense of humour is fucked up, you do know that right?"

"Your point is?" Mickey asked, wiping off his hand on Ian's jeans because he was classy like that. Ian didn't complain though, why would he?

"Nothing," Ian muttered and Mickey didn't know why he didn't stop him when the redhead leaned forwards and closed his mouth over his. He blamed the alcohol, he blamed the grief, he blamed the fact that Gallagher tasted like a fucking dream come true.

Mickey blamed a lot of things. He couldn't help it. Otherwise he'd have to admit that he was in love and Mickey didn't know the vocabulary to do that.


End file.
